


Mine to Love

by The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff



Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [5]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2019, DEC 08 - Favorite Trope/Cliche, Healing, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, References to Depression, Vulnerability, basically: healing is a journey not a destination, but overall it's just cutesy, like fade to black, showering together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21727687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff/pseuds/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff
Summary: Baz comes home early from a short trip to Oxford. Simon chooses to open up.Set during the December post-Wayward Son.BAZIt’s always so good when he touches me, like I’m savouring it, like my body hasn’t quite caught on to the idea that Simon isn’t going anywhere. The idea that he’s actually mine. Mine to have. Mine to hold, finally.Mine to love...
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557748
Comments: 12
Kudos: 223
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2019





	Mine to Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Carry On Countdown 2019 - Favorite Trope/Cliche
> 
> I have...quite a few favorite tropes, & I spent days & days languishing over which one to write. I had the ideas, but the words weren't coming. So this isn't truth or dare. And it's not a magic mishap. Instead I give you: showering together. (Here's hoping it's decent lol)

**SIMON**

My therapist—my _new_ therapist—says healing’s a _journey,_ not a destination. 

Or whatever it is she says; pretty sure it’s something like that. Means there’re good days and bad, and some in between. Things are much more _good_ than they are _bad_ lately, but there’s _still_ bad, sometimes. Sometimes it’s a few hours, or a day. Sometimes a few days.

It’s been a few days. 

It gets worse around Christmastime. I mean, I _think_ it does. Last year was just sort of shit all ‘round, and the first half of this year was just more shit. 

Things’ve been better, since we got back from America. Or I guess since the shitshow at Watford was taken care of. Things _settled,_ more or less. Baz and Penny convinced me to get a new therapist. Baz and I _talked._ And, well. More than talked. 

And my magic…

I don’t want to talk about my magic too much—might jinx it—but I _think_ I’m starting to feel it again. Not like it used to be, not out of control. 

It feels sort of like coming home. 

Anyway, I don’t want to jinx it. And I think my... _brain stuff_ gets worse at Christmastime. My new therapist says that can happen with trauma. Says the mind knows—the _heart_ knows—the changes of the seasons, like a muscle memory of all the bad things that’ve happened. 

At first I thought maybe that was all tosh, but if I’m honest with myself, I think she has a point. 

Baz went away, I think that’s why it’s bad. 

I mean, he’ll be back. Just went to visit with Dev and Niall at Oxford for a few days. Then he’ll come back, and then he’ll leave again, to spend Christmas with his family…

He told me I should come. I’m not sure I want to, but I told him I’d think on it at least. 

I just miss him. 

I’ve spent the last few days holed up in my room. I really should shower—I feel gross—but I barely have the energy to get up for a piss. It’s like, I _know_ what would make me feel better, but I just don’t do it. 

I guess I’m hoping it’ll pass on its own. It passes for a bit whenever I get a text from Baz, and when he calls me before bedtime…

I check the time on my mobile. He should be calling me soon—

He’s calling me now.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey yourself, Snow.” 

I’m not really sure what to say. (That makes me nervous, sometimes, the not knowing what to say. I don’t very well want to say I’ve been sat around useless for days, do I?) (Baz doesn’t mind me not talking. Either he’ll do the talking, or we’ll stay on the phone quiet, which is more comforting than it probably sounds.) 

“You’re home, I take it?” he asks. 

I almost laugh. “Yeah.”

There’s a knock at our front door. 

The wanker’s come home early. 

I’m so excited to see him, I accidentally hang up on him as I jump out of bed. “Sorry!” I yell. (I can yell as loudly as I want; Penny isn’t in.) (She’s with Shep.) (Penny spends a lot of time with Shep these days…)

Baz has one eyebrow in the position when I open the door. 

“What’re you doing?” I ask, which is probably stupid. 

“What does it look like, Snow? I decided to come home early.” He steps over the threshold. “Thought I’d stop off to see my boyfriend; have you seen him? Fit. Curly hair. _Short_ —”

“You arsehole,” I say, but I’m grinning. 

Baz moves in—to kiss me, maybe, or to hug me—but I back away. He looks hurt and I feel like a right prick for being the reason for it. 

“No,” I say, holding up my hands. _Shit,_ that’s probably worse. “I mean. I should.” I can feel my face heating up but I try not to think about how embarrassing this is. “I should shower. I mean. You’re staying, yeah?” 

Baz’s lovely grey eyes soften as one corner of his mouth quirks up. “Is that an invitation?” 

_Please._

“Yeah.” 

“Then I’m staying, Snow.” 

“Right, well. I should…” I glance over at the bathroom, but I don’t move. I just want to hold him, really. To have him hold me. (It’s getting easier, to have him hold me.)

“You should…?”

“I’m a right mess.”

“What else is new?” 

“Shut up. Just—”

“Would you like…” he trails off. (It’s not like him to trail off.) He huffs and runs his long fingers through his hair. He’s sort of smiling, and sort of blushing a little, too. (He must’ve hunted before he came over.)

“What?” 

Baz and I...well, we’re still a bit shit at communicating, aren’t we? But at least we _try,_ now, even though it’s scary as fuck. Like, sometimes I’d rather face a hoard of angry dragons than _talk about my feelings,_ or whatever. But we’re always better in the end for it. 

I think Baz feels the same way, honestly. About facing a hoard of dragons. And he’s the one who's bloody flammable. 

“Well,” Baz starts. His eyes are looking everywhere but me, so I know he’s about to tell me something he wants. Or something he’s embarrassed to ask. (Or both.) “I could...join you. If you’d like.”

I blink at him. “What, to shower?” Normally I think I might find the suggestion a bit hot, actually, but I’m well disgusting right now. (At least I think I am…) Also if he’s in there it’d probably be rude to take a piss. 

“We don’t _have_ to—”

“No, that’s. Okay. Just…” I’ve started tugging at my hair. (If Penny were here, she’d be telling me I’m on my way to causing premature balding.) “‘S’okay,” I say again. I give my scalp a scratch (I think my hair really needs a wash). “I don’t think I really want to... _do_ anything. Yeah?” 

“Isn’t the entire point of showering to _do_ something, Snow?”

“You know what I mean.” I’m not sure how normal I am, to not want sex all the time. _Especially_ with someone who looks like Baz. Especially with the _way_ I want him. (I suppose I do want sex all the time. It’s just...terrifying, sometimes. Most of the time. It’s easier to try not to think about what I want.) It was well embarrassing to have _that_ conversation with my therapist (my _new_ therapist), but she didn’t make me feel weird. It all made more _sense,_ really, after she talked me through it.

She says it’s vulnerability I’m scared of. And that _being intimate_ is vulnerable, especially with someone you love.

And I do. Love Baz, I mean. A lot. 

I love him _so_ much. 

I reach for him and pull him into me. 

“Whatever you want, Simon,” he says in my ear. “It’s okay.”

  
  


**BAZ**

This is a first for us. 

The showering together, anyway. The _getting naked together_ isn’t a first, though it _is_ an incredibly pleasant recent development. The novelty of it hasn’t worn off yet. (Not that anything I’ve ever done with Simon Snow is a _novelty_.) 

Every time I undress Simon it’s like unwrapping a precious gift (cliché as that may sound). I try to let him feel that, to show him that he’s loved. Cherished. _Adored._ I know he’s still a bit uncomfortable being naked in front of me. I can _tell_ , and also he’s told me. Because talking’s a thing we actually do now.

We always undress me first, however, which is why it surprises me when Simon pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and lifts his arms for me. 

I don’t move forward right away. I give him a look instead, and he nods, and then my hands are at his sides. He’s warm, even through the thick fabric of the hoodie he’s wearing. (It’s one of my old football ones, and he’s not even cut holes in it for his wings.) (I don’t think I’d mind if he did.) (They're gone now, his wings. And the tail. Bunce must've spelled them off before she left the flat.) 

I’m gentle with him—I always am—but I don’t touch him like I’m afraid he might break. Like I’m afraid he might break _me._ Not anymore. 

I know better, now. We both do. 

When I get the hoodie up and over his head, Simon’s curls are sticking up in all directions. They’re even longer now, on top, though he’s been keeping up with getting the sides trimmed since we’ve been back from America (godforsaken country that it is). He’s flushing and bashful and lovely, and I can smell him. _Crowley,_ can I smell him…

He’s embarrassed that he hasn’t showered, that much is obvious. But he smells _good._ So good, like sweat, and sex (he’s gotten himself off at least twice since his last shower, and I bloody well love that I can sense it. Because I’m disturbed.), and something sweet and special and _Simon._ And the heady brown butter scent of his blood underneath it all... 

It reminds me of when we started puberty. We were both changing (me more so than him) and the scent of him drove me to the brink of madness more than half the time. Part of it was thirst. Part of it was...something else. Something else that took me a few years to sort out. 

He’s lovely. He’s always so lovely…

It’s work not to bury my face in the sweatshirt and breathe him in. (It’s work not to bury my face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, to go right to the source.) I fold it up and set it neatly on the bathroom counter instead. Snow raises both eyebrows at me, because he can’t do just one. (I raise one back at him to taunt him.) 

“‘S dirty; don’t have to fold it.”

“You’re a lawless creature, Simon Snow. Let me enjoy at least some semblance of order.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Yeah, okay. Now yours.” 

It’s always so _good_ when he touches me, like I’m savouring it, like my body hasn’t quite caught on to the idea that Simon isn’t going anywhere. The idea that he’s actually _mine._ Mine to have. Mine to _hold,_ finally.

Mine to love. 

“This isn’t fair,” he says once he’s gotten my jumper over my head.

“Hm?”

“You’ve another shirt on.” He gets to work on my shirt buttons, and I watch his hands. They’re freckled, a lighter shade of tawny now that it’s winter, three moles total on the backs of them. He starts at my neck and works his way down, and I can’t help the little trickle of pleasure that grows with each new inch of exposed skin. 

I’ve imagined this scenario so many times, Simon Snow undressing me. Dating him still isn’t the erotic gropefest I’d always imagined, but I think this is better. The careful consideration. It’s not feverish, and I think that makes it more intimate, really.

It surprises me when he actually takes the time to fold both my shirt and jumper—badly. I hold in all manner of sarcastic remarks. There’s a time and a place for them, I’ve found, and it’s not when Simon’s opening himself to me. (Though I do slip up now and again. Old habits. Old coping mechanisms…)

He reaches for me again, and for a moment I think he’s about to start on my trousers, but then he brushes his knuckles low on my belly, between my navel and my waistband, stroking gently up, then down, then up again. He knows I’m weak for this. I’m weak for _him,_ full stop. (I wonder faintly if he’s changed his mind about _not wanting to do anything._ ) He’s watching his hand as it moves along my skin. (I know because I’m watching _him_.) (He’s lovely…)

Then he stops, almost as soon as he began, almost as soon as my eyes were about to fall closed. He slips his thumbs into the waistband of his joggers and pushes them down unceremoniously. I’m watching the way the muscles in his thighs move as he steps out of his trousers, the way his—

“No pants, Snow?” 

He lets his trousers pool on the floor once he’s out of them. Then he looks up, gives me a signature Snow shrug, and pulls me to him by my hips. He makes quick, careful work of my button and flies, pushing my jeans down over the swell of my arse. (My pants as well; he must be trying to be efficient…)

Simon swallows his delicious, obnoxiously showy swallow as his eyes roam over my body. Then he takes my hand in his and pulls me after him—one careful step after another—into the shower. 

  
  


**SIMON**

The water feels wonderful against my skin.

You forget, I think, how nice it feels to shower. How nice it feels to be _clean._

I close my eyes and tip my head back against the stream, letting the heat of it soak my hair and beat against my scalp. I can tell Baz is moving towards me even without looking at him. One hand lands at my hip, then the other.

“Is this okay?” he asks. 

I swallow and nod. 

Then I feel his lips, feather-light against my neck. He goes for that one mole first, and as soon as his mouth touches me I feel that feeling, the one that makes me feel like running in the other direction. _Away_. Anywhere else but here…

My therapist says I should breathe into that feeling. Lean into it...something like that. (I really don’t want to be thinking about her just now, but also I should, probably.) 

I breathe in deep, and let myself feel…

I try to get inside my body instead of my mind. I try to get inside my _heart._

Soon I don’t feel like running anymore, and I’m stepping closer to him, moving _towards_ him. 

He’s making my breath come out all shaky. He’s making my knees want to buckle. 

He’s making me…

I shrug against his face, and he stops kissing my neck. (Really, he’s made it up behind my ear now.)

I swear I can hear him swallowing as he pulls back. “Not good?” He’s trying not to sound hurt. (I _know_ what he sounds like now, when he’s trying not to sound hurt. When he’s trying to be understanding.)

“‘S good,” I tell him, which is true. It’s true _now._ “But…”

The water’s beating down against my back as I set my palms against his hips and pull him in to me. 

“ _Oh,_ ” Baz says.

“Yeah.” I huff. (It’s a bit of a laugh, really.) And then I kiss him proper, lips on lips, tongue against tongue. He’s a little warmer than normal, since he already fed, and the water’s warming him up some more...

But I’m going to get him hot. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thehoneyedhufflepuff) I'm a disaster over there.


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